


Rituals

by jillyfae



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A countdown of Daniel Shepard's life throughout the games.  Or perhaps, more accurately, a countdown through the lives of the people he cared for, who cared for him in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for [thatelflady](http://tmblr.co/maQuI_P1c9t1zp2zDg-QnbA) for the [MEHC](http://masseffectholidaycheer.tumblr.com/).

***** 10: Ashley Williams *****

_Man, not even fake turkey?_  She sighed, and carefully kept that thought to herself.  She'd worked too hard, too long, to let herself complain now that she was finally where she wanted to be.

Ship-board posting.

Fighting the good fight.

Missing stuffing and gravy was not something to be worried about.  

She really missed stuffing and gravy, though.  And cookies.  Especially Sarah's shortbread.

She got to the end of the line, all set to grab a water bottle for her tray before she went to find a seat, and burst out laughing.

She wasn't the only one missing the holidays here in space.  Someone had put tiny Santa hats over the tops of every single bottle, a row of white and red across the shelf.  She heard a cough, and turned her head, and shared a grin with Shepard.

*** * * * ***

Dear Sarah,

I know we've never met, and probably never will, but I also know grief takes its time to fade, and it's always worse this time of year.

Your sister loved her family, all of you, and your mother will have already gotten my official letter, will have already been visited by someone in blue and silver, saying all the same things you've all heard before, about service and sacrifice and honor, and I hope those things help.

But Williams, sorry, you're a Williams too, of course.  Ashley always seemed to have an extra story, or an extra joke, just about you, and I wanted to take this time, this chance, to say I'm sorry for your loss.  I'm sorry I couldn't bring her back to you.  I'm sorry you'll never get to hear her laughter again, that loud sharp sound of joy that filled a room.  I'm sorry you never got to see her receive the medals she earned, shiny pieces of metal and ribbon that got sent to your mother instead of pinned to her uniform.  I'm sorry you never got to see her excel as we both know she would have, given even a fraction of a chance.

And all I can hope, is that the words she used to comfort me, when we spoke of family, and those we both lost over the years, will comfort you as well: _and may there be no moaning of the bar, when I put out to sea, but such a tide as moving seems asleep, too full for sound and foam, when that which drew from out the boundless deep, turns again home._

She wouldn't want either of us to grieve too much, after all.  She's just leading the way, as she always did, clearing a path for when it's our turn to follow.

Though I hope you don't find her path for a good long while.  She'd want you to live a full life, so you'll have plenty of stories to share, once you cross that bar.

Sincerely,

Daniel Shepard

p.s.  I hope you don't mind, I kept her hard copy of Tennyson's poems.  It's rare to find such a nice little book these days.  It's got a note in it, to send it back to you, if anything should happen to me.  It will make its way home too someday, I promise.

***** 9: Liara T'Soni *****

_By the Goddess._

Her mother took her hand, and bowed her head, and gently nudged her ankle with her foot.

She bowed her own head, and repeated the words, slow and careful.

Rituals were important.  Even the ones that seemed to serve no purpose, the ones whose roots were lost in history.

Or so her mother said.

Her mother said so many things, to so many people, but those words.

Those she had saved just for her.

Careful, my Little Wing.  Be sure you know where you've been, before you go flying off on your own.  Otherwise, how ever will you find the right path?

  *** * * * ***

_By the Goddess._

The prayer seemed meaningless, now, but Liara bowed her head nonetheless, and let the words slip between her lips.

And when they were done, she could feel her breathing ease.  

Perhaps it did help, a little.

Though she wasn't sure she wanted ease, not now.  Not in a galaxy that refused to listen.

Not in a galaxy that refused to admit where they were, that refused to look at either the past or the future, that refused to admit they were on the wrong path.

Not in a galaxy without Shepard.

***** 8: Garrus Vakarian *****

His father told the best bed-time stories.

Spirits made real, goals achieved, people saved, each read in the same precise voice, rich and comforting.

Or perhaps it was just the novelty that made them seem so perfect, his father away more than he was home.

Mother's stories were usually funnier, the pacing better, silly voices and shifting mandibles for each new character.

But after she'd left, and he was pretending to sleep, he'd always imagine how his father would have said it, slow and steady.  He always hoped he'd live up to the heroes in his father's stories, who seemed so much larger than life.

So much more important than a silly voice.

*** * * * ***

Garrus was never going to hear his mother laugh again, and it was his own damn fault.

So caught up in the ending he'd wanted, he'd forgotten the importance of the journey, had skipped the steady pace that would lead him where he wanted to go.

Had forgotten the point of all those stories over the years, slow and even.

Which he could forgive, if he'd been the one to pay the price.

But he hadn't, his team had, all of them, laid out behind him, black bags under red lights.

He couldn't forgive, be forgiven, but if he had a chance to atone ...

But no.

He'd had his chance, and he'd lost it, and all that was left was to do it right, at last, here at the end.

Doing it right meant admitting his mistakes.  Perhaps, even, saying goodbye?  The signal was good enough, here, and the siege was quiet enough, for now, to make one last call.

It would be good to hear his father's voice, one last good night story.

And then he'd see how many of them he could take down with him.

***** 7: Mordin *****

_Maelon gone_

_well not_ gone

_common language imprecise_  
 _salarian would never have brought up that connotation_  
 _wonder if possible to introduce new terminology?_  
 _how effective ..._  
 _would need to spread through asari and volus trade ro --_

_immaterial_

_Maelon refused return to active duty_  
 _Maelon will be missed  
_

_Duty must be done_

_But perhaps he is right_  
 _perhaps new duty may be found  
perhaps time in STG is done_

_*** * * * ***_

_Always welcome, Shepard_

_not an assistant_  
 _ignorant of proper protocols_  
 _terrible at research_  
 _talks too much_

_still_

_is good company_

_honest_

_bites lip as nervous habit_  
 _leans back and counts the ceiling tiles_  
 _or forward to find the seams in the floor_  
 _listens_  
 _not distracting  
knows when to be quiet_

_usually_

_surprisingly compassionate for a soldier_  
 _reminds me of Maelon ..._

_immaterial_

_but we will succeed_  
 _he will make sure  
it is good, to help_

***** 6: Samara *****

It was a feast day.

Not a particularly important one, just a chance to gather together, to eat, to pray, if one was so inclined.

A day of celebration.  Once upon a time it had been a festival of lights, celebrating the turn of the stars above them.

But there could be no celebration, not here.  Not anymore, not for them.  No joy in the passage of time.  Possibly never again.

Not when her daughter lifted her head, looked at her over the body of the turian girlfriend she'd brought home to visit, her eyes gone deep and black.

"Mirala, what have you done?"

*** * * * ***

"What have you done, Shepard?"

Samara stopped in the doorway to her, _not hers, it belonged to the entire ship, she had nothing of her own anymore, besides her memories,_  the doorway to _the_ starboard observation deck.

And yet.

There were trails of tiny multicolored lights strung up along the edges of _her_ ceiling, just bright enough for their reflections to flicker against the window, to dance among the stars.

Shepard shrugged, an apologetic gesture to go with the bite of his teeth against his lower lip.

"An old human tradition.  Well.  Not particularly old to an asari, but old enough for us."

"A tradition of what?"

"Lights to show us the path on the longest nights of the year, to help us be thankful for the people who helped along the way, to remind us that the sun will rise again, to keep us company though the holidays until the New Year dawns."  He smiled, crooked and brash and oddly endearing.  "An excuse to ask for presents and eat a lot of food and drink too much, mostly."

She almost smiled back.  That sounded familiar, after all.  The sort of thing she'd liked to do, in her life before the Code.  

"It's a time we like to visit our families.  If we have them."  There was that shrug again, almost sad this time.  "Thought you might like to be reminded that the families we make count too."

She blinked for what felt like an eternity, all the years of her life caught in the weight of her eyelids.  And then she opened her eyes again, to the soft rainbow halo of lights surrounding them.

"Thank you, Shepard."

***** 5: Miranda *****

Her tutors all had a two month vacation at the end of each year.  At first she'd thought it simple convenience, a time to allow for special projects, for her father to assess her progress himself, a chance for her to design new goals, to show what she could do on her own.

It wasn't until she was free that she bothered to consider other reasons, that she saw people laughing, and wrapping presents, and toasting their memories.

It was just another tool, of course.  A bit of data on human motivation, human history.  A weakness she could exploit, really, such indulgence in nostalgia and idealism, as regular as old-fashioned clock-work.

  *** * * * ***

"Shepard."  Miranda looked up from her desk, felt her eyebrow try to reach up her forehead at the odd expression on his face.

Sheepish?  That was ... unusual.

He rocked back on his heels, and she swallowed a sigh.  That was him resisting the urge to stand closer, swallowing his tendency towards physical contact.  He only did that when he thought they needed to _talk_.

She stood up, walked around her desk, and sat carefully in a chair, head tilted to the empty seat across from her.  

Usually he relaxed at such invitations, but this time he went so far as to rock up on his toes, and bite his bottom lip.

"I wanted to thank you." He blurted, oddly graceless.  "For, well, everything.  Me being alive, to start with.  For siding with me, with us ... _after_."  His eyes softened, and he finally stepped closer, though he didn't sit down, and his hands were still behind his back, as if he thought he ought to be at parade rest.  "For promising to help everyone get away, when we reach the Citadel, before Joker and I head back to the Alliance."

She snorted, though she kept it soft.  They'd had that argument already.  He was going to turn himself in, regardless of what she thought of the matter.

"So we're going to miss the holidays," she blinked, "and we used to, on Mindoir."  He stopped, and her eyes widened.  He didn't talk about his family.  Ever.  "Happy New Year, Miranda."

He finally pulled his hands out from behind his back, and set a small box on the table in front of her, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a red cord.  And then he nodded, suddenly at ease, and turned and left.

She reached out slowly, after the door slid closed, until the tip of one finger rested against the knot in the middle of the red bow.

She picked it up, and stood up smoothly, and turned to put it in the middle of her packed bag, where her supplies would keep it cushioned.

She'd open it on New Year's Eve.  And toast to Shepard, and everything they'd accomplished.

And everything they might still accomplish, given time.

***** 4: Jack *****

She hunched over the 'tool, head tilted, adjusting the reception, swearing as she realized she'd only managed to pick up some kids' channel, dancing drawings and stupid songs.  Weren't even in common, and her scavenged tech wasn't smart enough to translate.

Not that she'd watch it if it was.

She wasn't a kid.

Hadn't ever been a _kid_ , not like those who watched this sort of shit, who knew the words to stupid songs and thought a dancing dog was funny.

She didn't have room for funny.

She lifted a finger though, trailed it along the line of black floppy ears, and swallowed, and didn't turn it off, not 'til it was over, and the battery was drained, and the picture slowly sputtered out into static, then darkness.

*** * * * ***

"Fuck you think you're doing?"

Shepard didn't stop, didn't flinch, didn't turn around, didn't seem remotely worried, which ought to be annoying but somehow wasn't.

So she waited, arms crossed and foot tapping, obscurely proud of the fact that she could, that she could wait, could stand here, straight and tall in the center of the doorway, no shadows, no perching.

That was Shepard's fault too, a bit.  Bastard.

Finally he turned, offered that odd half a grin that twisted his face and made his eyes catch the light, and always seemed to be suggesting she share in the joke.  

"So, you're not gonna be here long, this time, we're just the taxi.  But I thought it might help you feel at home."  He finally stepped to the side, and there was a tiny plastic tree, covered in red lights.

Only red.  A red dim enough not to ruin night vision, a red warm like all the hidden nooks and holes by pipes and engines and furnaces she'd claimed as her own over the years, when she didn't think she could risk taking up space.  

When she couldn't trust a room with a door, or the people who might walk through it.

But they were twinkling.

She barked out a laugh, and shook her head, and rolled her eyes as his grin widened.  "Glad to have you back, Jack, even if just for a little while."  His hand rested on her shoulder as he passed by, and she didn't shrug it off, and his smile softened.  He waited through her second eye roll, and only dropped his hand when she smiled back.  "See you and your kids at dinner, yeah?"

"Yeah."

***** 3: Kaidan Alenko *****

They were early.  

 _Cheap suits and expensive shoes_ , his mother had sniffed, the first time they'd come, and she'd sent them away.

And the next time, and the next.

But then he'd knocked over her favorite vase from the far side of the room, and the mirror in the master bathroom had a crack even when he swore he hadn't been near it, hadn't been in there, and his father had just looked at him, black hair and black brows and black eyes, and his mother had stepped between them and hugged him, and apologized, words tumbling over each other, even though she never really said what she was apologizing _for_.

But they all knew.

Mom had made food, _too much food_ , she always made too much food, as if Thanksgiving still meant something, even though _Canada_ didn't mean much of anything any more, she wanted to honor her new home, she wanted an excuse to make maple cranberry sauce, she wanted one last holiday, one last family moment, one last day at home.

But here they were instead, the same suits, the same shoes, the same blank faces and greedy eyes.

He didn't really have anything to be thankful for, anyways, so even while his mother argued, sharp and loud and determined, he went to his room, and grabbed his bag, already packed, and put on his shoes and coat.

"I'm ready," he announced, heading straight for the door, and it was a twist of almost pleasure, sharp and painful, to hear his mother stop mid-word.

This wasn't home anymore.

*** * * * ***

"Welcome back, Alenko."  Joker's voice from the cockpit was as sharp and quick as ever, but it was Shepard who smiled.  Shepard's whose stance shifted, just a little, and Alenko swallowed a smile of his own, unexpected and warm, because he recognized that footwork; his mother was a hugger, and he'd recognized the same signs in Shepard back when they first met.

Shepard had resisted, back then, still too much the Commander.

He seemed to have changed his mind, somewhere over the years, seemed to have decided there were things more important than the letter of the regulations.

Perhaps he was right.

Alenko dropped his bag, a soft solid thud against the metal plate of the airlock, and stepped forward to give Shepard a hug, one quick hard embrace, suddenly thankful that the universe kept changing, and yet some things never did, still the same enough that they'd all found their way back here again.

"Welcome home, Kaidan."

***** 2: Legion *****

_We are geth.  We are Legion._

_We require all, to be one._

_If one is lost, all are lost, if we are split, we are no more._

_Would we drown, when we are not all, lost in simple processes and functions?_

_Would we be mourned, or dismissed?_

_Pigs to slaughter._

_What purpose would our platform serve, were it not us?_

_Would we be the sacrifice, of less value than the organic lives we failed to save?_

_1183 - 1 = 0?_

_1 > 1183?_

_More data needed._

_*** * * * ***_

_We can learn._

_We can be more._

_We can be better._

_The whole is greater than the sum of its parts._

_We do not require all, to be one._

_We are Legion._

_We are geth._

_I am Legion._

_I am sacrifice._

***** 1: Steve Cortez *****

Robert was an amazing dancer.  Light on his feet, graceful, joyful, always an outstretched hand, an invitation, _join me._

He never could resist the invitation.

Never tried.

Never could think of any reason not to hold his hand, or make him laugh, or follow his lead.

Never let a New Year's pass without that dance, without that very last kiss, tasting of champagne, becoming the very first kiss instead.

  *** * * * ***

Shepard couldn't dance for _crap_.  And yet, there was a familiar hint of joy when he tilted his head back and listened to the music, a clear invitation reflecting in his smile when the light caught his eyes.  

Cortez was surprised to find he recognized it, wanted it.

_Join you?_

_I think I will._

And despite the war, the death, the threat of everything weighing them down, he felt, at last, _again_ , light on his feet.

  *** * * * ***

One last kiss.

One last good-bye, relief and regret, both at once, flickering holos, too far away to touch.

 _Hopeless, helpless, waiting,_ dying.

Only Daniel refused to die.

Stubborn bastard.

It took more time than Steve ever cared to count, _longer than they'd been together, longer than he'd grieved for Robert,_ to find each other again.  But that first kiss, though it tasted nothing like champagne, was the sweetest he'd ever had; new day, new year, new life.

Anything was possible.


End file.
